Chapter 5

The next lesson to be learned, the hard way? Do not laugh too hard at the absurdity of a spiritual battle … because yep, it can get even worse. 

It was Friday of Memorial Day weekend 2020. I was car camping near Tahoe. I’d just gotten off the phone with an old high school friend—he said I couldn’t stay in his guest room after all. He said he had to go visit his sister out of state and we could talk next week. I was crushed but kept it cool. I knew he was blowing me off. 

What he didn’t know was that I was desperate and so excited to finally be done with the nomadic life. Every time I packed the car to get ready to move, Tinkerbell would start shaking and reverse sneezing. It was anxiety at the insecurity of our situation. I felt it too. I’d really been counting on a few weeks in one spot. But no—back to moving every night. Couldn’t afford to stay anywhere long, and definitely didn’t want a cop tapping on my window, telling me to move along. 

It was Grandma’s birthday weekend. I posted a Happy Birthday on her old Facebook page. When she was alive, it meant pool parties, tons of family, and her sweet old friends baking delicious peach cobbler. Those were the times I missed the most. I texted my sons and Aunt Mim to tell them I loved them, because I did, even if they felt it best to ignore me. Who could blame them. 

It was hot, sticky, and buggy—peak camping misery. The campsite bathrooms? Gross. I rinsed off with cold water from an outdoor spigot like the feral camp creature I was. 

I scrolled Craigslist, hunting for a live-in job where I could help out an hour or two a day and maybe—just maybe—not pay rent. Lofty dreams, I know. But then—boom! Found one. A guy needed help weeding… and then growing weed. Didn’t care. I’d get my own clean bedroom, my own bathroom—luxury! I checked that he was cool with my dog, Tinkerbell, and made it crystal clear I wasn’t looking for a romantic situation[1]. He agreed. I thanked God, packed up my campsite, and headed down the mountain.

Five (5) hours later and up another mountain, I pulled up to the remote property with very little diesel left in the tank. John, the landlord, seemed nice and gave me the tour. Said he’d just inherited the place. He was great with Tinkerbell (thankfully, she’s a total angel). I let him know that even though I had fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue, I would find a way to manage an hour or two of work each day.

The kitchen and living room were... rustic at best. His room was plain and had several types of guns laid out. One was antique. I asked if it was registered. It wasn’t. My work area, the future “garden” looked more like a junkyard—rusty tools, rotting wood, weeds waist-high. It was going to be a big project. But my bedroom? A perfect off-white canvas. 

John had dinner ready, and honestly, just talking to a real human without a paper mask over real food on a real plate. Total upgrade from the usual gourmet—canned tuna from Dollar General. It felt like heaven. John helped me haul my twin mattress into the room. I took a gloriously long, hot shower and was knocked out cold—like a burrito of exhaustion and gratitude.

I woke up to John getting fresh. 

Remembering the guns, I said calmly and steadily: “I told you I am not interested in a romantic relationship.” 

I decided that Tinkerbell and I were much safer sleeping in my car than trying to find a toilet and a shower. I was consciously choosing to be homeless. That weight was heavy. I packed up, loaded the car, and held my ground. Tinkerbell shook. I shook. 

I didn’t have enough diesel fuel to get very far. With a giant lump in my throat, choking back tears, I had to ask John for $25. Just asking for money was humiliating. But his answer? It was soul-crushing. John told me I had to wait for him to return from an appointment because he wanted to make sure I didn’t steal from him. Only then would he give me the $25. The humiliation was overwhelming. We waited six long hours for John to return. 

I was in a trance driving down the 2-lane winding mountain road when Tinkerbell threw up. Her breakfast got in the space between the seat and the center console. 

I ignored her. I was looking for a clearing along the road. One with a sizable drop-off. So, there would be no chance of recovery. Found it. I pointed the car in that direction. 

Again, Tinkerbell threw up. This time repeatedly. All over my lap. She was crawling over my lap, trying to get to the driver side door. It was dripping down the inside of the door and into the carpet. Disgusting. 

I looked back up, but missed the drop-off I was aiming for.

Tinkerbell began to frantically paw at the inside of the driver side door. I yelled at her to stop. I looked for another clearing, but there wasn’t one. 

Tinkerbell was in a frenzy. She was trying to get out of the car. 

I couldn’t find a suitable cliff to drive off of, so I stopped and pulled over. Tinkerbell had diarrhea for the next half hour.  

I googled “dog vomiting and diarrhea causes.” There was only one possibility. I panicked. I texted John to ask if he had any rat poison in or around his house. But it didn’t matter. Because she is so little, the internet declared there was no chance of her surviving any poison. 

I watched Tink pace the side of the road until she had exhausted her insides. I found some water for her to drink. She wanted to sleep in my lap. We waited for her death. I prayed for Tink even though I felt so hollow and empty inside, because I knew God could hear me. After an hour, she was still alive. I was perplexed. She should have been dead. 

I called Nana Mary and asked if I could borrow money for a motel and some pho soup for us. I nursed Tinkerbell back to health over the next 24 hours. And I completely forgot about the cliff.

[1] I had many opportunities to be a harlot if I wanted a roof over my head, a hot shower, and food. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror ever again. No, the irony is not missed on me.